


Hello From The Other Side

by FrozenHearts



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dream Sequence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Magic, Merlin's eyes do the thing, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5127650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenHearts/pseuds/FrozenHearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry couldn't help but feel frightened for the man in his dream.</p>
<p>Merlin finally cried for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello From The Other Side

**Author's Note:**

> This I wrote a while back with the intention of making it a full-on crossover fic, but lately I've had a thing for one/two-shots instead of multi-chapter fics.
> 
> And this fic was inspired by Adele's new song "Hello" which is absolutely gorgeous, and I highly recommend listening to it while reading this fic.

All Harry could see were his eyes. The piercing blue, like waves crashing over an ocean’s shoreline. They seemed to glitter, blinking unbearably slow. And somehow, they seemed familiar. Harry was certain he had seen eyes such as these in the past, belonging to someone close to him?

They would in that case, most likely belong to one Albus Dumbledore, with their age old wisdom and kind facets. But it seemed not to be the case. Albus Dumbledore’s eyes were more of a soft blue, almost gray. These eyes were completely blue, blindingly blue.

And then they were gold.

A swirling mirage of colors, yellow and red and orange and white. They were toxic, the way they funneled around his pupils like hurricanes. It occurred to Harry that these were most definitely not Albus Dumbledore’s eyes; Albus Dumbledore had no such ability to change the color of his irises at will.

That was when he heard the voices. Or, more specifically, _his_ voice.

“My my…” Voldemort’s drawl seeped into Harry’s brain, the focus never leaving those terribly blue eyes. “What have we here?”

A shot of pain, as the man’s eyes scrunched up in unison. The gold had left them, flickering out like a candle. Harry could feel himself sweating, tossing and turning, but he didn’t will himself to wake. Not yet.

“It seems you’re powerful, young warlock,” Voldemort hissed, “And that simply won’t do, now would it?”

The image became clearer, widening to reveal a dingy and murky dungeon. Water leaked from the ceiling, and a rat flitted across the floor to a hole in the wall. There were no windows, allowing shadows to dance and careen around the cell as they pleased. But shivering in the corner, Harry saw him, his eyes a beacon of light in the dark.

“N-No…. please….!” Harry winced at the man’s bated pleas, but he could not put a face to a voice. Only his eyes, which were threatening to blind him should he dare to look much longer. Harry wanted to yell as Voldemort approached the voice, to yell, “Get away from him!”

His voice was slightly hoarse by the time he mustered up the courage, but the two ignored him. The man- at least, Harry was fairly certain it was a man- was gasping for breath as Voldemort was upon him, his cries echoing. Dirty nails scratching at the cobbled stone floor of the cell, the man was desperate to get away as Voldemort dragged him by the hair.

The chains and shackles were bolted to the floor, the chain long enough to allow Voldemort to tug him around like a dog. Harry seemed to cry out along with the man as Voldemort summoned a woman to slap them on, the woman looking as crazed as her master, if not more so. He was barely aware of the shaking, as the man shook along with him.

“Harry….”

That wasn’t possible. Harry knew he didn’t have blue eyes. And he wasn’t in that dungeon. He was outside the cell.

Wait.

_Outside the cell...._ His thoughts were cut short as he heard his name again, louder this time, with more clarity.

“Harry! Get up!”

There was no reason for anyone to be telling him to wake up. Last he checked he didn’t fall asleep. But soon enough the man was being pulled away from him, Voldemort was being pulled away, the chains clanking in his ears-

“ _HARRY_!”

Harry Potter jolted upright to see Hermione glaring, eyebrows knit in confusion as she stared down at him, “Harry, are you alright?”

Harry was sticky, his hair plastered to his face and neck. His pajamas seemed to fit like a glove, the fabric puckered and bunched up around his stomach, revealing the flat plane of pale skin. His bed sheets were rumpled around his legs, the thick red quilt blanket half-falling off the bed.

“Huh…?” was his reply, rubbing at his eyes.

“You were yelling in your sleep, mate,” said a second person, and Harry glanced over at his nightstand to see Ron sitting on it, pushing aside a stack of books and parchments. His form blocked the light coming in from the window, giving his friend an almost ethereal glow. His red hair looked almost brown from the awkward angle.

“I-I was…?” Harry stammered. He knew he said things sometimes, but was he being loud? Too bothersome?

“You were yelling, Harry,” Hermione clarified, “it seemed pretty serious.”

Harry shrugged, “It was, uh, interesting, I guess.”

Hermione didn’t seem convinced, crossing her arms. Ron had gotten off the nightstand, helping right Harry’s blanket and sheets. The light seemed to burn as Harry stole a look out the window, the grass rolling below.

The room was empty, which explained the somewhat awkward silence between he and the others. Heaving a sigh, Harry finally said, “I saw Voldemort, in my dream, I saw him.”

“Is that why you were yelling?” Harry nodded, still seeing the bright blue eyes.

“He was… I think he was torturing someone, Hermione,” Harry explained, “All I could see were these….”

Ron raised an eyebrow, “What? What did you see?”

Harry shook his head. It was too much. It was a dream, he knew, but it felt so real. Hands gripping his shoulders, Harry found himself being steered out of the bed, facing Hermione. Her lips were pursed, and her brown hair was bushier than normal. From the humidity, Harry guessed.

“Harry, what did you see?” she demanded, slowly tapping her foot on the floor.

“I said, Voldemort was torturing a man, Hermione,” Harry reiterated, “Nothing else.” 

That was a lie. And Hermione knew it. Really, he had to get better at lying. Clearing his throat, he added, “Well, all I really saw of him were his eyes. They were a bright blue-”

“So you saw Dumbledore?” Ron guessed helpfully.

“No, it wasn’t him,” Harry declined, “someone much younger, but his eyes, they turned… _gold_ for a minute, I wasn’t sure-”

Hermione placed a hand on his forehead. Her skin was cool against his own.

"Just... get some rest, Harry." she said softly, "I know it may be Voldemort trying to connect with you, but it could also just be a bad dream."

Harry nodded, allowing Hermione to draw the covers over him. But he couldn't fall asleep again. Not after hearing those pitiable moans. But soon he fell back into a restless sleep, groans rupturing his throat as he pleaded for the man from afar.

 

\---------------

 

Merlin couldn't take it. His eyes stung. Black hair was matted, his skin was dirty with sweat and blood and Merlin knew what else. The warlock allowed himself a chuckle- if he started referring to himself in third person, things were bad. Definitely bad.

Not bleak, though. That was a sentiment for those who had reserved a place in their hearts for lies. Those who had given in to the corruption of the ideologies that lead to their imposed self-destruction.

Of course, that was what happened exactly. Merlin yanked on the chains, their clicking and clanking making his ears throb, his skin burn. His wrists were chaffed and the skin was flayed. He was fairly certain they were rubbed neatly down to the bone, infected and oozing. The cell stank of rotting flesh, the squeaks of rats and the soft _drip.... drip.... drip_ of water on the ceiling was like a ticking clock. Seconds and minutes were wasted, turning into hours, days- possibly months.

Merlin prayed it wouldn't come to that. Oh _gods_ , how he _prayed_.

But he knew no one would come. And so his scream were futile. For a minute, he wondered if he had felt something- a third presence in the cell, aside from this Voldemort and Bellatrix LeStrange. Pitiable excuses for a wizard or witch. Downright _abominations_. Merlin knew he'd be able to take them (it was a perk, being the most powerful warlock to walk the Earth.)

So why was here? Why was he chained and hurt and aching?

Because you're stupid, Merlin thought to himself, cringing as he heard himself sobbing, "N-no...please-"

"Oh, shut up!" Bellatrix cackled, and his head snapped back as she slapped him. He had a feeling she was going to do that a lot more. He winced and barely resisted the urge to cry out as the chains on his wrists were pulled taut, and he was thrust forward on the floor. Red lines trickled down his arms, rusting the already disgustingly rotted metal. Glancing down, he eyed the length of the chains- they seemed to snake on forever, melding with the shadows in the corners. He could see the beady red eyes of a rat as it scampered into a hole in the wall, turning back momentarily before scampering away.

Even the rat had more common sense than to stay in a room with Voldemort, it seemed.

Voldemort- this man looked absolutely atrocious, Merlin wasn't even sure he could be classified as a _man_ , even- had started talking; of spells and true love and a little boy. Merlin couldn't bring himself to care. He was cold- that strange "third person" in the room was the cause of it, he mused. Merlin had to chuckle at that; if he was imagining people, he must definitely be going mad.

You had to be mad to get caught by Voldemort though, didn't you?

"What is it you find funny, dear warlock?" Voldemort's tone bought chills to Merlin's spine. Cold and calculated, he let the chains drop from his hand, sending an ominous boom to rattle his bones. The leak was starting to bug him. Merlin half-wanted it to be the reason he was so jumpy, to have a reason to be able to lash out, claim insanity, anything but this.

Instead of answering, he stayed silent.

Merlin was grateful that the two cretins decided to leave him alone, slamming the door to his cell behind him. Everything felt heavy as he sagged upon the floor. The cobblestones were wet, soaking his clothes with stale water and blood.

He was happy that that third presence was there. Even though he was sure he was imagining things, it gave him a sense of peace, knowing that someone- even fake- was looking out for him. It may not have been Arthur, or Freya, or even Gaius, but this third presence was a start. And so, Merlin allowed himself to cry, calling to no one for help.


End file.
